White Chistmas
by Hoperise
Summary: Steve, Tony, and Bruce plan the team's first Christmas together. Steve gets mugged. Tony blames Bing Crosby.
1. Gee! I Wish I was Back in the Army!

White Christmas

Setting: Post-Avengers. Pre-Anything Else.  
Genre: Drama/Friendship. No pairings, besides a slight hint of Pepperony.  
Summary: Steve, Tony, and Bruce plan the team's first Christmas together. Steve gets mugged. Tony blames Bing Crosby.

* * *

Chapter 1: Gee! I Wish I was Back in the Army!

* * *

Tony Stark had seen better days.

Assembling the Avengers from the far-flung corners of the realm seemed like a pretty good plan. Clint would be flying in from DC next week; Natasha was… somewhere in Eastern Europe where foreigners feared to tread; Thor was coming from another dimension, for crying out loud; Bruce was practically living with him at the moment, so he didn't have far to go; and Steve was coming up from Brooklyn.

Actually, that trip happened on a fairly regular basis. Tony had given Steve a standing invitation for Sunday dinner. And as everyone knows, it's notoriously difficult to refuse an invitation that comes with a chauffeured limo.

More often than not, their dinners degenerated into a drinking competition that Tony always lost – he was testing a working theory that there must be a type of liquor to which Steve's metabolism did not apply. So far, no luck, but the hangover gave him a fantastic excuse for Monday mornings. ("Pepper, you don't get it - I'm hungover for _science!")_

Today was supposed to be the pre-Christmas party planning party. But the world's wettest blankets quickly dispelled Tony's grand illusion of good times plotting tomfoolery: none other than Steve and Bruce.

The two of them quickly agreed on a quiet, internal affair. Unable to persuade them to consider something more colourful, Tony slunk away from their maddeningly civilized conversation. He wandered through the living room to his ludicrously high-tech entertainment center and began blasting AC/DC to drown out the suggestions of refinement and tradition.

This, of course, prompted Steve to complain about the racket, which, in turn, prompted Tony to mock him for his age.

And that one innocuous comment was the catalyst of all that was to come.

"Steve, be older. What am I supposed to play with a system like this - Bing Crosby?" The scoff halted on its way to Tony's throat as he observed a curious change come over his friend. Steve went sort of rigid, his eyes widening with recognition.

"I know that guy!" Steve exclaimed, looking from Bruce to Tony in delighted astonishment. Decades melted from his demeanor when he was excited about something – which, come to think about it, was not that often.

Bruce mirrored his smile indulgently.

Not possessing the patience of their occasionally explosive companion, Tony rolled his eyes. "Figures. You're about as outdated as Bing is."

Shaking his blond head, Steve continued, "No, Tony. You don't get it. I know him! I met Bing Crosby! He did a gig at a base in Normandy last ye- ah, I mean, back in '43." Some of the animation faded from Steve's expression as he caught himself, troubled.

A gentle pause. "No kidding? Bing Crosby? That's incredible. What was he like, Steve?" Bruce replied evenly as he ushered the Captain into the living room, attempting to prompt their intrepid leader from his self-imposed shell of solitude.

A slow smile crept across Steve's face. So rare, those smiles. So unlike Clint and Tony's sarcastic smirks, or Thor's dazzling mirth. So different from Natasha's dubious leer that made one wonder if one's body parts were in immediate danger, or Bruce's self-deprecating grin. This was... authentic. Honest. Steve was not a man to put on a front and smile if he wasn't actually happy.

Come to think of it, that explained why he smiled so rarely.

"It was a real gas. That cat knew how to jive." Steve said, shaking his head in recollection.

Bruce discreetly shot a look at Tony.

Tony bit his tongue.

Oblivious, Steve settled into a chair, snapping his fingers absently as he sought for words. "He finished the set with this incredible song, this Christmas song. I forget the name of it-"

Bruce and Tony shared another glance before suggesting in unison, "-White Christmas."

"That's it! That's the one! How'd you know?"

"It's one of the most overpl-ugh!" "-The most overly _loved_ Christmas carols out there." Tony began the sentence, but was brought to a halt partway through by a bony elbow to the ribs. Bruce completed the thought with a surprisingly innocent grin.

Folding his arms behind his neck, Steve paused before continuing. "It was the first show, maybe the only real show that me and my commandoes caught together." His piercing blue eyes were lost in the distance, staring into the past. "My pal Bucky, he woulda been with you, Stark. He liked something with a little more rhythm. Jitterbugging and all that. Probably because he could actually dance without trampling a dame."

The name rang a bell with Tony, but he wasn't quite sure where he recognized it. Despite how often he threw it in the chronologically older man's face, Steve didn't bring the war up often. Not the personal parts. Not the important parts.

The Captain's face flickered with lines of pain and Bruce and Tony had the surreal experience of watching him age before their eyes.

Softening, Tony folding his arms across his chest. "Hey, Rogers. How would you like to see Bing one more time?"

That was how they wound up spread across the living room hours later, chuckling and throwing popcorn while Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney crooned across the screen in the titular White Christmas film.

Tony had a habit of keeping a running commentary on every movie for which he was present. This time, he kept his comments to a minimum on pain of Bruce.

It was incredible to see their usually stoic leader light up and laugh – truly laugh. Tony was sure that he had heard Steve laugh before. He just couldn't quite pinpoint a specific time.

The easy warmth of his smile brought his friends a deep, lingering sense of contentment. Steve lived his life in minor key: intense, anguished, and incomplete. At last, here was the missing piece. Here was the resolution: the man at rest with himself.

At that moment, just as Bruce launched an empty Junior Mints container at his nose, Tony resolved to make Steve laugh as hard and as often as he could.

Unaware of the snack-hurling shenanigans, Steve was enraptured by the film. He was usually pretty reserved during most movies he watched with the team, choosing silence in favour of saying something stupid. But this was something he knew and understood. This was proof that he was not an alien in his own country.

And yet, as the plot unfolded and the two ex-GI's made their way through life after World War II, as characters reunited with old army buddies, fell in and out and back in love, Steve became more and more withdrawn.

The movie ended in a tremendous production. No one missed the faint homage to the children the characters would one day undoubtedly have. The battle-scarred veteran was honoured, the world-weary GI inspired by his curly haired beau, the plucky comic relief shown what was truly important in life, and perfect snow drifted down from the Vermont sky.

The war was over. The protagonists survived the peacetime. Stylized text of 'The End' covered the screen as the credits rolled.

The trio sat in silence for a minute.

It was a glistening Hollywood image of what most GIs did after the war. They got jobs, started businesses, got married, had children, and died.

They were not frozen icy coffins and woken to fight other wars seven decades later.

Steve was smiling again, this time with a wounded edge. It looked as though he'd swallowed a caramel with a fishhook buried inside. He stood up, stretched, and thanked Tony for the movie. Then he begged an exit and was on the elevator before either of them could muster an argument.

Tony cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed. "Well. That could have gone better…"

Yes, Tony Stark had definitely had better days. Days when his extravagant plans resulted in something other than crushing damage to one of the few people he looked up to.

But as many had tried and failed to clarify to the billionaire playboy, not everything was about him.

And certainly not this story.

* * *

Happy Canada Day. I figured the time was ripe for Christmas in July. This little tidbit has been niggling in my brain since re-watching Captain America the other day. I have a couple other one-shots in my head, but I figured that this one deserved to stand on its own. I'll probably pound this out pretty quickly, so forgive the roughness. Thanks for stopping by!

Reference: White Christmas (1954).

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	2. Snow

White Christmas

Setting: Post-Avengers. Pre-Anything Else.  
Genre: Drama/Friendship. No pairings, besides a slight hint of Pepperony.  
Summary: Steve, Tony, and Bruce plan the team's first Christmas together. Steve gets mugged. Tony blames Bing Crosby.

* * *

Chapter 2: Snow

* * *

"Might I inquire as to where you're headed, Captain?" The tinny voice of Stark's butler rang out in the vacant entrance hall, the only noise besides the faint rush of the decorative waterfall.

"I've got some things to see to, Jarvis." Steve replied, distracted. Tony had attempted to explain the concept of AI to him on several occasions, but it was far easier to believe that his friend had an Englishman shut up in a cupboard somewhere.

Still, it was no use being uncivil to the invisible butler. Tony probably had a camera on him somewhere, anyhow.

"Shall I ring the driver for you, or would you prefer a cab?" Jarvis intoned, with all the assumption and decorum that Lord Falworth had possessed.

"Neither, thanks. I think I'll just walk. People forget it, but I did grow up here." Steve replied, his lips curling with the faint hint of humour. He tugged on his leather jacket over his thin cotton shirt and swept out the door.

Dusk descended over Manhattan as he made his way down East 42nd. New York City had fairly mild winters compared to the rest of the state, and certainly in comparison to the Alpine winter from which Steve had been plucked. The Howling Commandoes had been launching expeditions in -20 degree weather for months. Judging against that, the few flakes drifting from the dreary Manhattan sky were nothing.

He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets as he passed Grand Central Terminal. Despite the scaffolding and areas still cordoned off for repairs, travelers streamed in and out of the doors, going everywhere and nowhere all at once.

It must be the universal constant of life in the city, Steve mused. Everyone was always busy. Attending to some emergency. Managing some circumstance masquerading as a crisis.

And the technology that Tony so highly praised seemed to be doing a better job at dividing people than bringing them together. Most of the people on the street were talking on their phones, looking at their phones, or plugged into some kind of wireless device.

Just as Steve approached an intersection, a dark-haired teenager with a backpack on came trodding down the street. His head was down and thumbs busy, ears engulfed in a massive set of headphones. So engrossed was the boy in his device that he apparently didn't notice his light was red. Right before the boy stepped off the curb into the path of an oncoming tour bus, Steve reached out and yanked the handle on the youth's backpack, pulling him back onto the sidewalk just in time.

Confused, the boy looked up as the bus roared past. By the time he figured out his near-deadly mistake Steve had already continued on his way.

Following the clusters of tourists, Steve let the flow of traffic move him past one theatre after another. The crowds of visitors who flooded Manhattan during the Christmas season had grown exponentially since he was a youngster. Somehow there was a mystical image of a classic New York City Christmastime that drew visitors from across the world to ride through the park in a horse-drawn carriage or see the tree lighting at Rockefeller Center.

He remembered the first tree the men constructing Rock Center had put up. In those days twenty feet seemed impossibly tall, decorated haphazardly with paper garland and old tin cans. And yet, they had been so proud.

Vividly he could recall walking Broadway as a tyke, ducking from alley to alley in hopes of catching a glimpse of a celebrity entering the venue. Like any good child of the '20s, Steve read the funnies religiously – even doodled a few of his own on occasion. But no matter how many times he played out a Little Orphan Annie scenario in his head, there was no glamorous benefactor to take him away from his squalor.

"Speak of the devil," Steve muttered as he looked up at a billboard the length of a city block, advertising the third revival of Annie: The Musical.

Well, how about that. He was older than the classics and he hadn't even celebrated his thirtieth birthday yet. Or had he? Did it really count if he had been basically comatose the whole time? Was he twenty-seven or ninety-five?

The bottom dropped out of his stomach as Steve continued plodding north. He struggled to keep his thoughts from turning darker, but there were too many gloomy corners in the labyrinth of his mind to avoid them all.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with exhaust and the exotic scent of something frying in the distance. For a moment he entertained the illusion of being just another face in the vibrant mass of humanity. He banished the darkness by gazing into the flashing neon and chasing after the scrolling LED signs. An icy wind picked up and began blustering through the corridor of buildings, driving some of the crowds indoors in search of shelter and hot chocolate.

After passing the same coffee shop three times, Steve thought he'd somehow gotten turned around – but no, it was simply three locations of the same franchise. At last, the street opened up onto Columbus Circle.

In the center of the traffic circle stood the same familiar statue of old Chris himself. A bitter smile came to his lips as he remembered his ill-fated attempt to scale the statue at age thirteen and the resulting dislocated shoulder. Bucky had flipped his wig, but it was worth it to see the pity in his friend's eyes for the first time replaced by respect.

The statue was just about the only thing he recognized in the area, though. Gone were the beloved brick-and-stone buildings, replaced by colossal structures of glass and metal enclosing every side but one.

From the east, the inviting branches of Central Park waved to him like a long-lost friend. Snow began to stick in the grass, frosting the cobblestone pathways and great spreading lawns.

At least that was one sight the passage of time couldn't change: everything looked the same under a layer of powder.

He crossed the street and entered the park. Unprotected by the tremendous skyscrapers, the chilling wind cut through his jacket and trousers with ruthless efficiency.

Goosebumps rippled over his skin, but the rapidly dropping temperature did little to affect his core. Steve had achieved the peak of human potential – including the peak temperature conservancy. Only truly extreme temperatures could bother him at this point – like being completely encased in ice. Even then, his stubborn heart refused to stop beating while the rest of the world turned onwards.

And that, Steve surmised, watching as tiny crystals swirled in the light of electric streetlamps as they flickered to life, that was the crux of the matter.

He was the same. It was the world that was different.

When he truly understood how alone he was in the twenty-first century, he was overwhelmed by grief. Ploughed by grief. Dragged, screaming, out to sea and smothered by an ocean of grief.

His mistake had been in living as though everyone he'd ever known had died – had been wrenched from his grip just like Bucky.

But that wasn't true.

They lived, many of them long, glorious lives. They had had children and grandchildren, loved and been loved. They won the war and returned home in glorious triumph. They took offices and earned degrees and made names for themselves.

They lived and died, old and full of years. And though many had mourned the fall of Captain America, few, if any, mourned for Steve.

Making his way to Bow Bridge and strolling halfway across, he leaned against the railing and watched as the pristine whiteness of drifting snowflakes was swallowed up by the blackness of the water. He took a breath of ice and forest and tried to imagine away the tinge of smog tainting the edges of the air. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the constrained chaos of ice skaters gliding across the lake, woolen coats and scarves flapping in the wind.

Well, anonymity was what he had signed up for. He laid his life on the line knowing that he was giving up everything for his country. He sacrificed his future, his love, and his very life to offer the chance for the same to others.

Like he told Peggy in their desperate last conversation, he had made a choice. However painful, however drastic the consequences, it had been his choice to crash the Valkyrie. He had been ready to die.

He had, in a sense, died.

And in return, he had miraculously been given a second chance.

Steve could mourn. He could rage and curse the sky and pray for death. But to do so would dishonor the lives that his loved ones lived without him, to claim that their lives were somehow less valuable without his presence. He would, in essence, be valuing his own happiness above the existence of the millions who would have died had Schmidt's plan succeeded.

In essence, he owed it to the people he missed so dearly to live his life to the utmost. It still hurt terribly to be without them and he would never be able to replace them.

There would never be another Peggy; a woman with brown eyes so endless that he could fall into them and never come back to earth.

There would never be another Bucky; a man who stood by his side for years, who had stood up for Steve Rogers when nobody else thought he was worth anything.

But there would be others that Steve could teach of their courage, their independence, and their determination. He owed it to his fallen friends to be their presence in the lives of others.

Relationships were not like sums. You couldn't add and subtract people. No one person can fill the hole left by the loss of another. It was more like multiplication – relationships compounding and building off each other exponentially, increasing in affection and depth as he learned how to connect with others in new ways.

For those he had lost, for those he had yet to meet, and for himself: it was time to start living again.

An icy breeze sent ripples across the lake and drove the flurries against his cheek. He closed his eyes and let the burden of grief fall from his shoulders.

And for the first time since Bucky died, the winter wind was a comfort instead of a torment.

The temperature continued to fall, but there was warmth in the pit of his stomach. Ready to face the night, Steve pushed off the railing and headed north into the Ramble.

Perhaps it was because he felt so utterly at peace, or because he was generally more confident since he'd been transformed into the peak physical and mental state for a human. Perhaps it was because he hadn't needed the same degree of caution when he was a kid in the 30's, wandering through the Hooverville built on what was now the Grand Lawn.

Whatever the reason, Steve unintentionally disregarded what had become one of the cardinal rules of visiting New York in the twenty-first century.

Don't walk alone through Central Park at night.

And he was completely caught off guard when a figure stepped from the shadows and pointed a .357 Desert Eagle in his face.

* * *

For kicks and giggles, you can totally follow Steve's walk on Google Maps using the streetview.

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	3. Blue Skies

White Christmas

Setting: Post-Avengers. Pre-Anything Else.  
Genre: Drama/Friendship. No pairings, besides a slight hint of Pepperony.  
Summary: Steve, Tony, and Bruce plan the team's first Christmas together. Steve gets mugged. Tony blames Bing Crosby.

* * *

Chapter 3: Blue Skies

* * *

"Gimme your wallet and your phone, and everybody walks away." A callous voice demanded. Light from the lamppost overheard glinted off the silver casing of the pistol. Low caliber or not, a semi-automatic was a semi-automatic.

Steve halted in his tracks, raising his hands slowly to show himself unarmed.

Wait a second, what? Was Captain America really getting mugged right now?

Logically, the first thought to enter Steve's mind was that Tony was going to die laughing.

"You're kidding me, right? With the gun? That thing's bigger than you are." Steve said, deadpan.

The mugger was partially shrouded in darkness, standing just outside the range of the lamppost. But even from the shadows, Steve's superior vision could tell his assailant was painfully skinny, at least a foot shorter than him. What's more, he appeared to be wearing a thin black sweatshirt and jeans – not nearly enough layers for a New York winter night. Not if you weren't a super soldier. His hands, not even gloved, trembled violently.

"Big enough to take you out. You wanna test me, man?" The mugger snarled. His voice betrayed his youthfulness.

"No, but I think you're making a mistake. Trust me, you really don't want to do this." Steve replied cautiously. He sobered as he realized Captain America was not getting mugged – Steve Rogers was. As the only team member to wear a mask, he enjoyed the greatest anonymity walking the streets of Manhattan. If the panicky teen discovered whom he was holding at gunpoint, he would probably shoot first and ask questions later.

The kid laughed, a harsh sound bordering on hysteria. "Why not? I ain't got nothin' to lose."

It would be child's play for Steve to snatch the gun. Easy to grab his wrist and backfist his rattled assailant into oblivion, then haul the body down to the station for the police to deal with.

But that one statement caused him to pause. Compassion roused within him as he stared at the shivering teenager and wondered what he had already lost.

And then he made a silent decision, the waves of which would ripple through his team for weeks.

"Well for one, there's no cash in my wallet. You can have my phone, but it's this chunky flippy thing. I think it's worth maybe fifteen dollars brand-new. I'd give you my jacket, though. You must be freezing, kid." Steve said kindly, moving slowly as he removed his jacket.

"Don't call me kid," the kid snapped automatically, eyeing the article of clothing. "Okay, toss it over."

"So, what do I call you?" The captain replied, bundling up his beloved bomber jacket and gently throwing it into the slush. He straightened and raised his hands once more. There was now only a thin cotton t-shirt between him and the night air.

The mugger hesitated for a second, bending down awkwardly and juggling the gun as he slid into the lined leather. Steve purposefully ignored eight different tactical openings as the teenager shrugged his jacket on.

At last, he said cautiously, "Marco."

"Marco, I'm Steve." He smiled, inhaling slowly as he weighed the risk he was about to take. "Well, my wallet's in the inside pocket; phone's in the right. You can check if you want, but I'm telling the truth about the cash. I don't have a credit card. On the other hand, there is a debit card in there.

"So you've got a couple options. You can take off now and all you've got is a jacket, fine. Or, we can get out of here and find an ATM. You'd walk away with a couple hundred bucks. Maybe a meal if we can find a diner that's open. Whaddya say?"

There was a pause and Marco lowered the gun slightly, stunned. "Are you messin' with me, man? What're you playing at?"

Steve couldn't contain his grin. "I'm gettin' robbed, what's it look like?"

Even from the darkness he saw the edge of the teen's lip turn up, but there was still hesitation in his reply. "Yeah, but… how do I know you ain't gonna call the cops or nothin'?"

"You got my phone. And you've got my driver's license with my home address. I turn you in, you've probably got a buddy to come finish the job, am I right?" Steve's voice was flippant, yet his words were calculated as he presented himself as a target.

"Nah, man. It ain't like that."

No gang affiliation. That was a relief, but not a full answer.

His blue eyes softened as his voice turned serious. "Then tell me what it is like, Marco. Why does a kid like you have nothing to lose?"

"For real?" The teen shot back, his body language defensive and uncertain.

Steve lowered his hands slightly, trying to put him at ease. "Yeah. You can tell me now if you want, or tell me at the diner, or come by my place sometime and I'll burn something for dinner. I got time."

Marco seemed to consider the offer for a moment before a wave of fury rolled over him. The teen's voice turned dark as he raised the gun again with new determination. "Why do you care, man? Rich white guy with your house, your wife and kids. I bet you never went without nothin' a day of your life."

Lifting his hands once more to show that he was not a threat, Steve felt a tangible pang in his chest as he formed the words to reply. "I don't have a family. I live in an apartment by myself. My parents died when I was just a kid. I went off to war and every single one of my buddies died. I'm completely alone. So yeah, I know a little about loss. How about you?"

Blinking owlishly at his bluntness, some of Marco's rage faded as he appeared to consider Steve in a new light. His words came slowly and haltingly, poison draining from a wound. "My pops walked out. I got three sisters from three different guys. Ma's workin' two jobs to make rent, but when it's not enough she goes back to workin' the corner.

"She's got this manager that sends guys her way, and whenever she doesn't show he'll come smack her around. And she just takes it, doesn't fight back or nothin'… Landlord's threatening to evict us, so I know she's out there with that creep tonight."

The teen's grip on the gun tightened, desperation entering his voice. "And… she's my ma, you know? She'll do anything for us, even if it kills her. But she's better than that – better than he treats her. I'm the man 'a the house – the only man in the house. I got no choice. I grabbed the one thing my pops left for me and I'm gonna use it. I gotta do something or we're on the streets, and who knows what happens to my kid sisters then? What am I gonna do? What else can I do?"

Steve couldn't help thinking back to his own mother, how she had worked endless hours to provide for the cost of his medicine. Of course, in the end it was her work that killed her. He'd borne the weight of her death for years. He understood the love of a son for his mother, had experienced the pressure to step into his father's shoes and had fallen painfully short.

Stirred by empathy, he nodded slowly. "I get it, kid. It's hard. It's hard and you hate it and you want it to be over with. It stays hard for a long time, and then it gets better. Because as time passes, you get stronger and you can bear the weight a little easier."

He looked up into the night sky and watched the flakes drift down with muted fascination. Steve fought to keep his voice steady as he continued, "You know, the sun is going to rise tomorrow and my friends will still be dead. But I'm still gonna get up and face it. One of my buddies – a guy I knew since I could walk, a guy who saved my life more times'n I can count – he had a saying. 'Life is a storm. You can shut yourself in and ignore it, or go outside and live anyways.'"

Losing the battle for composure, Steve's voice quavered with emotion as he looked back to Marco with determination flashing in his eyes. "But no stormcloud lasts forever. I know there's a blue sky out there somewhere; and so help me God, I will stand here in the rain until that day comes. It's coming for me, and I swear there's a blue sky out there for you, too."

The teenager swallowed, tension draining from his shoulders as he began to lower the gun. "It's snowing," he corrected, distant amusement in his tone.

"You know what I mean, wise guy." Steve chuckled. He let out a long breath and steeled himself, then continued. "I swear there's more hope for you, Marco. You and your family. But you can't make things worse for yourself. There's a line that you can't cross without setting yourself back months or years.

"I know it's hard right now, and it might seem like you've got nothin'. But you've got your whole life ahead of you. You gotta trust me when I say that this moment, this time in your life won't last forever. You just need a little help to make it through."

Marco's hands wavered.

"Come on. Put the gun down. Let's get out of here, go find something to eat. We'll talk game plans for you and your family." Steve said soothingly, courage rising as he saw the youth's resolve beginning to crumble.

And as Marco gave him a hesitant smile, he had this feeling that everything was going to be alright.

But even the good Captain got things wrong.

Just as the teenager began to lower the gun, there came the pounding of footsteps on the bridge and a familiar shout from afar.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Startled, Marco swiftly raised the semi-automatic. His eyes dilated and he began to tremble once more. "Back off! Hey! Back off!" He bellowed, changing his target from Steve to the bridge and back to Steve again.

From far off, he saw Tony and Bruce sprinting towards them. He saw the horror in Bruce's soft brown eyes and the snarl of Tony's lip.

He looked to Marco and saw the panic rising, then turned back to his friends, raising a hand to warn them off.

Steve opened his mouth to cry for them to stop… but the words never reached his lips.

They were halted on the way by the bullet that pierced the back of his neck and exploded out of his throat.

His last coherent thought as he crumpled to the ground was one of moderate surprise.

He survived the war only to be gunned down in his own city.

Someone had a twisted sense of humour.

* * *

Obvious disclaimer: should you ever be mugged, please don't attempt this technique. It probably will not go well for you.

Reference: 'Kaleidoscope,' Levi the Poet

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


	4. What can you do with a General?

White Christmas

Setting: Post-Avengers. Pre-Anything Else.  
Genre: Drama/Friendship. No pairings, besides a slight hint of Pepperony.  
Summary: Steve, Tony, and Bruce plan the team's first Christmas together. Steve gets mugged. Tony blames Bing Crosby.

* * *

Chapter 4: What can you do with a General?

* * *

He was floating.

Soaring high above the earth, buoyed by shifting currents in the air. One moment he was spiraling towards the ground at dizzying speeds; the next he was gliding into the clouds on the wings of an updraft.

He gathered his strength and flew higher into endless blue. Golden rays of the sun called him far above the ground, and he was certain if he tried hard enough he could break free of the atmosphere and sail past the moon.

As he strained to break free, he felt a pervasive sense of _wrongness_ wrap itself around his neck and begin dragging him back to earth.

The _wrongness_ became more powerful as it pulled him lower. It tightened around his neck and dug into his skin. He gasped for breath, longing eyes fixed upon the sun. A steady voice within told him he couldn't flee into the sky – he was needed on the ground to right this _wrong_.

He had never been one to run from conflict. But how could he focus on the righting if he couldn't breathe?

Desperate, his hands flew to his neck and he began to claw, to break off the choking restraint. Yet as he tore, the _wrongness_ intensified and set his nerves on fire.

He burned…

Strong hands pulled at him roughly, but he shook them off and continued to rip at his neck. Didn't they understand he was suffocating?

Flames licked eagerly at his flesh, blazing from the inside out. He opened his mouth to scream and felt a sickening crunch within. A bestial howl was wrenched from his throat and he plummeted into black.

Sounds and images blurred together.

Something cold and metallic kept his hands bound in place at his sides, and steady pressure on his scalp immobilized his head.

Voices, faces pressed in around him. Some part of him understood that he knew those people, that they were concerned for him. He had the general impression that he ought to speak, that there was something desperately important he had to do.

But by the time he was aware enough to recall that he had forgotten something, the pain became overwhelming and he was lost again.

He didn't remember returning to consciousness. He didn't remember opening his eyes.

His first recollection was her words.

"Don't try to talk."

Blinking and surprised to find his eyes already open, Steve glanced from side to side to locate the speaker. Finding nothing, he started to turn and look for the one addressing him.

That's when he felt a slender pair of hands cup his face, holding it still with gentle firmness.

The stalwart gray-green eyes of Natasha Romanov stared back at him. "Don't move your head, either. It's very important. Blink twice if you understand me."

Obedient, Steve blinked twice.

The lines creasing her face smoothed slightly. "Good. You're in the hospital, Captain. Do you know how you got here? Blink once for yes, twice for no."

He closed his eyes and saw that pale face, those trembling hands. He remembered Tony and Bruce coming towards him and then…

He blinked twice.

She frowned once more. "You were shot in the neck. It fused three of your cervical vertebrae, destroyed your larynx, severed your anterior jugular vein, and blew out a piece of your thyroid. You should not be alive right now."

How many times was he supposed to blink for complete and total shock?

It wasn't as though he hadn't been shot before. He'd been grazed, stabbed, burned, blown up, thrown off buildings and frozen alive. He was not indestructible, although he had pressed the limits of his healing factor during the war. It came to the point that the army medics refused to waste their desperately limited supplies on Steve unless he were on the brink of death.

Still, this was a new one. More worrisome, he had no memory of the agent returning from her most recent mission. How much time had passed while he fought for life?

Many questions clamoured for his attention, but he found his lips forming the words, 'Where were you?' The motion tugged lightly against his throat, sending ghostly flickers of pain along regenerating nerve endings.

Either the spy had been trained in the art of lip-reading (not a terribly unlikely option) or she was simply perceptive. She fixed him with an expression that bordered between exasperation and amusement. "You've heard of Yakutsk, yes? It's fifty below this time of year. Where I was, that's considered balmy."

She disappeared for a moment. Then came the sound of wood scraping against linoleum as she pulled up a chair and entered his view once more. "You've been under for about a week. The surgeons did their best to repair the damage, but your body has been doing most of the heavy lifting. Of course, you set yourself back by tearing out all of your stitches and breaking your neck a couple of days ago. Scared the life out of us."

He grimaced at her words and mouthed, 'Sorry.'

She smiled grimly, shaking her vibrant scarlet mane. The motion made him dizzy, images passing before his eyes of red lips, red metal, red snow.

Her words brought him crashing back to earth. "I gotta hand it to you, Cap. You've pissed a lot of people off with this little stunt of yours."

He returned her gaze, not comprehending. It must have been whatever meds kept him from feeling the wreckage of his throat. Surely they weren't blaming him?

Natasha raised an eyebrow, defiant. "Don't give me that look – I read the report. You went up against a skinny teenager. I've seen you wipe the floor with men three times his size. You let this happen. The question is, why?"

Steve furrowed his brow. He tried to return her piercing stare with one of his own, but he was finding it difficult to focus his eyes. The _wrongness_ was near again, rising within him as a wave. He could taste it like bile in the back of his throat.

_Wrong,_ all _wrong_. That wasn't what had happened. 'Accident.' He mouthed, fixing his eyes on Natasha and curiously proud of himself for the achievement.

She gave a mirthless laugh. "Right. You were accidentally shot in the midst of an accidental robbery because some kid accidentally pointed a gun at your head."

And at last, the pieces slid into place. The _wrongness_ had a name.

'Marco,' Steve mouthed, blue eyes widening in shock.

Natasha leaned back, unconcerned. "Who, the shooter? Don't worry about him. Shield has him now. He won't be seeing the light of a day for a long time."

_**What?!**_

Instinctively he attempted a deep breath, preparing to make himself heard. But the choking splutter that resulted drew his attention to something that had gone unnoticed until this point-

He wasn't breathing on his own.

Something was blocking his airway. When he tilted his head to look, he saw a bulky plastic tube feeding into a hole in his chest.

Wherediditcomefrom-blockingtheoxygen-ohGodwhatwast hatTHING-getitoutNOWheneededair-

Natasha was yelling and alarms blared as anxious faces in white coats crowded into the room. But that wasn't fair – they were using up all the air and couldn't they see he was suffocating already?

He wrestled against the steel cuffs holding his wrists to the best – if they wouldn't help him, he would rip it out all on his own. Metal screeched in protest and the wailing alarms blended into a wave of uniform sound.

Almost there…

Then a rush of ice in his arm and his eyes rolled back in his head.

* * *

"I think he's coming around. You going to stay this time?"

"And miss the show? You've gotta be kidding."

"Steve, can you hear me?"

Blood pounded against his skull. His mouth tasted as though he'd been cleaning the underside of a urinal with his tongue. His throat was a screaming mess. It felt like… well, like he'd been shot in the neck, he supposed.

Steve was getting sick of waking up like this.

He attempted a groan that came out as a sigh. He was not a quitter, but today it seemed awfully tempting.

"Come on, Captain Sleepyhead. You're not fooling anybody. You can't get past my spidey senses."

"Tony, I hate to break it to you, but you don't have spidey senses."

"Correction: not yet. Coming attractions aside, you're showing too much alpha wave activity for a coma patient. Up and at 'em, Cap'n!"

An exasperated sigh. "Are you planning on annoying him into consciousness?"

"Maybe. Who says I have to use my powers for evil?"

Steve reluctantly cracked an eyelid to see Dr. Banner and Stark in the midst of a befuddling discussion.

'Marco,' he mouthed, latching on to the first word that surfaced in his memory. The motion dragged against sensitive tissue and elicited a wince.

"Hello to you, too, Spangles!" Stark replied cheerily, his tone not quite reaching his eyes. "You'll be happy to know you're vent-free this time around."

Blank stares were universally comprehensible.

Banner supplied kindly, "While your throat was healing, we had you connected to a respirator – a device that delivered oxygen directly to your lungs. But as you demonstrated yesterday morning, you're ready to start breathing on your own.

"It's actually incredible to track your progress. See, for most humans, nerve injuries don't repair themselves. They just don't. But yours do. Observing the regeneration is going to provide astonishing leaps in research of neurological diseases, trauma recovery, degenerative conditions once thought irreversible…" Banner's voice took on an excited, even awed tone – before Stark interrupted.

"Gee, Cap, you should get shot more often." He quipped dryly.

Steve wasn't following.

He hurt. His throat hurt. His head hurt. His wrists hurt.

Everything hurt. And they didn't understand.

'Marco.' He mouthed again, frowning and trying to hold Stark's attention. It was about as easy as trying to catch a fly.

"Cargo? Heck no? You gotta give me more than that, Cap." Stark replied, vaguely amused.

Steve forced his gaze upon the dark-haired man, the spitting image of his former friend. Steely blue eyes met deep brown. Wordlessly, he tried to convey his helplessness, his conflict.

Stark's smirk flickered.

'Mar-co.' Steve mouthed slowly, grimacing as the movement scraped against damaged tissue and triggered a violent cough. The motion sent shockwave of pain rippling through his body, stealing his breath away.

He lay in shock for a moment. Coughing just rocketed to the top of the list of things he didn't want to try again.

"Marco. Marco Zapata, the shooter?" Banner guessed, voice solemn. "Natasha said you were asking about him earlier."

He nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Ten points to Banner!" Stark held up his hand for a high five from Bruce, which went unmet. "We got him, Cap. The kid gave me this bogus story about an accident, but the evidence was overwhelming. He had your jacket, for crying out loud."

He paused, than looked across the bed to where Banner stood. "You woulda been so proud of Brucie. Did he Hulk out and tear that kid a new one? Nope, he went doctor-mode and saved your life."

Banner looked down modestly, but there was a flush of pride about him.

Well, when it was put that way, custody was better than death by dismemberment. And such an act of control on Banner's part was nigh-miraculous.

'Thanks,' Steve mouthed, ignoring the scratch in his throat. He gave the doctor what he hoped was an encouraging smile and the most pleased look that he could manage.

"I know that one!" Stark commented in sing-song.

Now came the hard part.

Steve began to mouth an explanation as clearly as he could. He hadn't gotten far before he caught the scientists exchanging comically baffled glances. Frustrated, he tried to repeat himself, slowing down and exaggerating his syllables as though speaking to children. Yet the slower he went, the more pronounced became the sandpaper sensation of muscle dragging across irritated tissue. Before he could stop himself he began to cough again. Colored dots exploded on the back of his eyelids like fireworks in the night. His back arched; his limbs spasming and twitching as he fought to contain himself without the use of his hands or the ability to move his head.

Exhausted, Steve collapsed against the hospital bed and breathed.

"Yeah, um, we're gonna work on that. In case you're wondering, you've got a long way to go before talking is a thing for you." Banner announced after a beat, his voice laced with tension.

The captain let out a breathy sigh of impatience. Mustering his determination, he opened his eyes once more and made a scribbling gesture with his right hand.

Stark made himself useful and set to locating a notepad and pen, while the doctor examined him with a weighty stare.

"If I take these off, you aren't going to hurt yourself again, are you?" He asked, concerned.

Blue eyes fixed on Banner with a withering gaze. 'No,' Steve mouthed, punctuating his statement with a dry cough and a wince.

A few moments and an electronic combination lock later, the super soldier was rubbing his wrists and stretching. At last he took the offered notepad and began to write. His handwriting suffered from the angle, but that was the least of anyone's concern.

'Marco is right. Shooting an accident. I was talking him down and the gun went off. He didn't mean it.'

Stark read the note and shook his head in disbelief. "That's still assault with a deadly weapon, Cap. You're both lucky it's not second degree murder."

Steve's penmanship was a bit more vehement this time, darker and threatening to tear the paper in places.

'Don't care. Good kid. Wants to help his family. I won't press charges.'

Banner laid a hand on his shoulder. "Steve, it's not that simple. The police aren't holding Zapata. It's Fury."

Underlining the words 'Don't care,' a few more times, Steve penned his response.

'Fury can go kick rocks. He wants me more than Marco, right?'

He looked up at his teammates, defiance flashing in his eyes. He had disobeyed orders before when he knew it was the right thing; he would do it again if necessary.

Exasperated, Stark tossed up his hands. "I don't get it, Cap. What's the deal? Why are you sticking your neck out for this screw-up?"

Steve ignored the awful pun as he pondered his reply, then touched pen to paper once more.

'Everyone's a screw-up. Not everyone gets a second chance.'

Clearly, the billionaire was not impressed by his morality. His expression was veiled, his eyes shadowed by something only he could see. "Cute. Real noble of you, Spangles. Do you realize that's about eight kinds of crazy? You know you're making yourself a target for every two-bit punk walking the streets? When people see God bleed, they tend to stop believing in him."

Steve responded with a peculiar huffy breath and an impossible smile.

'You obviously have never heard of the resurrection. Or the reason why God bled.'

* * *

This chapter was a lot harder, but this one is for you beautiful reviewers. You keep me scribbling on buses and making funny faces at the computer screen.

Let's try an experiment, shall we? I'm testing this policy out my own self because I've been really encouraged by feedback recently. Review unto others as you'd have them review unto you. If you're a writer, for every chapter you post, try sending out a thoughtful review to another author.

Don't feel obligated to do anything for me. Trust me, this isn't a plea for reviews. It's an exhortation to speak life.

If someone's work inspires you or makes you think, let them know about it. That policy extends to more than just fanfiction, but people that you know and care about as well.

As writers, we know. Words have power.

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


End file.
